Dangerous Expectations
by Rainsaber
Summary: You can't prevent a world war, no more than you can bring the dead back to life. When things take a twisted and perverted turn for the worse, it's no longer the League's responsibility to set things right. It's Sawyer's. Time-travelling fic.
1. The Hunt

**Dangerous Expectations**

**A/N: Quick note to all readers, this is NOT the sequel to Devil's Obsession. This is something completely new, and something I'm planning on updating according to reader response. I'm still working on that sequel, but I thought this might be a nice side project to work on in the mean time. Who knows, maybe this will serve as some inspiration for that sequel. I don't want to give anything away, so read on and there will be some more notes at the end. Enjoy!**

Chapter One – The Hunt

This wasn't the familiar burn of exertion. It was something worse, something that engulfed every conceivable limb and appendage, something that was threatening to debilitate rather than exhilarate. There was nothing thrilling about this. It was all too terrifying and real. Being cornered and chased like an animal for slaughter, across countless borders of countries and provinces, forgetting rest and foregoing the essentials that any man or animal would need to keep going. Sheer will and determination shouldn't last this long.

It was the fear that kept the fire lit under him. Fear that they would win, like they had with the others. So he kept running, kept pushing himself past limits he didn't think he could surpass. He wasn't fighting for the world's right to peace anymore. He was fighting for his own life, for his basic right to live. Peace wasn't part of the deal. He'd damned it to hell along with his friends and family, with one shot. It wasn't the first time that he wondered how it had all gone wrong, how a man could survive something like that, just get up and walk away, make the world a miserable place like he'd never had a chance at dying.

He had missed.

But by how much? By a hair's length? More? He would never know because the more important part was that he failed despite all the training and encouragement. The very idea of a world war resting on the shoulders of one man, of said man's steady hand and sharp eye, was unfathomable…impossible to even consider. And yet, that above all else held the most truth, the most tangible understanding he could turn to when things started going wrong. The failure was absolute and unforgiving. They fought, lost, and paid a costly price for it all, a world war aside. He could still see their faces, hear their screams, his own mixed in with the fear, hatred, and confusion, crying out in wordless questions to how man could fall so far from sanity and human decency.

Human.

Did he even know what that meant anymore?

No. Not for a very long time. Not since the day they'd been hunted down and caged. Tortured. Used. And killed.

Running wasn't a hard thing to do in light of everything and everyone he'd left behind. He'd been given a chance. A precious one. And for months, close to a year even, he made good on that gift. In those early days he'd been happy simply to gaze on the sun and blue skies, to breathe fresh air. The very first day the clouds cleared and reminded him of what he spent months trying to remember was, in a single word, joyous.

…but only for a little while.

Maybe it was that stubborn American will that the League always teased him on, or maybe it was his own shape and form of revenge for his fallen comrades that kept him going. He'd never really know because it wasn't important. The important thing now was keeping them from winning, not making the League's sacrifices for the world and for him in vain. The caveat for that motivation was harsh. He laid down to it every night, waking in fits of delusion or panic at how real his mind made them, even after all this time.

Skinner.

Jekyll.

Nemo.

Mina.

Sleep was the emaciated one, not him. Not Tom sawyer. Tom Sawyer couldn't even say with confidence that he was Tom Sawyer anymore either. He certainly didn't look it, but part of him really didn't mind the messy moustache and goatee that grew in. What he did mind were the hollow spaces in his face and chest. They made too many people stare. They gave him away too easily. They forced him to run south where he could blend in easier, hide for just a little longer before going on the move yet again.

No man's land.

Across deserts.

Through forests.

Jungles.

Past herds of animals that wouldn't have minded to prey on the little meat left on his thin body. But in the end maybe that was the problem. They knew he didn't have much to offer, that he'd been marked by another more territorial animal than they. Perhaps he stank of death more than they could stomach. It almost made him sick that even animals such as the ones he saw roaming the dry plains refused to grant him the mercy of disappearing, of finding some end to an endless journey that had no destination.

He tripped and fell to his knees, panting, feeling dizzy and at the edge of his reserves. He looked up. He was outside a village.

The village.

The very same one.

How could that be?

Why? Why here? Not here. Anywhere but here.

Voices. His head whipped around and could barely see a thing through the haze. But he didn't chance it. The adrenaline pulled him up and he continued on. Started at a jog and ending into a full out sprint when he heard people running behind him. Not just any people. Men with heavy iron plated boots. He'd been too slow. They caught up to him somehow between the river and here. He had never stopped since then but he was too slow.

He ducked between a couple of houses, zigzagged and looped around to the other side of the small village in hopes of throwing them off…and found himself standing in the middle of the graveyard. He couldn't help but stop, even if his heart was screaming for him not to.

…was it still there?

Yes. Just a few feet to the left.

Tom closed his eyes and breathed easier through his bleeding and chapped lips. Why did he finally feel at home? What was this familiar feeling? It had a name…

Peace.

Yes, he'd heard that somewhere before. A long time ago. From the man who went before him, whom Tom idolized, who he would have and should have protected with his own life, who he helped bury…right there.

Allan.

What would he give to fix it? To fix it all? To bring them back. Give up his own life if it meant keeping Moriarty from ruining it all.

_Anything._

Feet behind him. He could feel his pupils dilate, another bead of sweat fall, but he whirled around regardless of his chances. He managed to set off one bullet before being knocked off his feet. Maybe it was the full force of the pain itself that sent him flying to the dirt instead of the bullet. It had to be because all he could feel when he fell was it explode into something more. He opened his mouth to scream and even that sounded tired and weak.

…exhaling was a terrible effort, as if this were somehow the personified bodily feeling of giving up. He coughed at the dust in the air. He was hot. Sweating. But was that from the pain or the relentless sun beating down on him now that he could no longer run from it? He looked up at the not so blue sky. The clouds. The sun…

It was clear.

Clearer than what he remembered seeing in a long time.

No smoke. No smog. No stench of war and blood.

His eyes watered and stung.

Ached.

But he didn't dare let them close. And he also didn't let himself listen to the voices calling him home, down to Missouri. It's been too long…far too long.

Was this how things were going to end? Here in a desert on the other side of the world? So far from home and everything he'd come to know since he left home in the first place? Was this what Huck felt all that time ago, when he was the one who lay dying, bleeding to death? Did he freeze from the blood loss? He couldn't stop shivering. Tom remembered that. But Huck had bled out in the cold damp of London. Here in the heat of Africa the coming cold felt rather nice.

Refreshing.

Deceptively comforting.

He breathed and coughed, droplets of blood painting his lips. He remembered. They couldn't win. They wouldn't. Not yet.

A shadow stood over him, pointed a gun at him but didn't shoot. Through the bright rays of sunlight Tom squinted and stared up at his attacker. And was disappointed to see that it wasn't Moriarty. One of his lackeys. Trained to maim and capture, not kill.

"Bloody little nuisance."

Tom rested his head for just a moment and then reared up and spat a big wad of spit and blood at the man. It took a lot out of him, but the sound of the man's sudden disgust and backtrack made it worth it. Maybe they'd give him a little courtesy now and put him out of his misery.

"Don't touch him," someone shouted. Someone familiar. Chillingly so.

Another shadow over him.

"Finally," Moriarty said with a smile. "After all this bloody time I can be done with you."

Tom kept his eyes open and strained to keep any pain free from his face.

"I have never been a patient man. But this…this I chose to wait for. The moment I stand over you and say 'You've lost.' Worth every second."

The shot to the leg surprised him, made Tom cry out from the shock of the impact rather than the pain itself.

"You have lost, boy. Thought you were bloody clever leading us on a God damned chase across the continent, didn't you?"

Another shot, in the arm.

"Now, my little American, you will die. Like every single one of your predecessors who thought they could outwit James Moriarty."

More shots, all in his chest. Now he was voicing the pain as loud as he could, with complete abandon. Some things were just too hard to fight.

"Leave him. I don't want it to be quick."

And then they left him. Left him for the crows that circled above. On soaked earth that just wouldn't let him lie still. Tilting and spinning…like that crazy ride in Nemo's car…or when they were sinking after the…why were they sinking? He couldn't remember.

* * *

><p>He kicked a pile of dirt with his iron plated feet and glanced hatefully over to the boy in the graveyard who he should have shot outright. The only solace he had was in James' reassurance that letting the boy bleed to death would, in fact, be a quite painful and miserable fate. But that didn't mean he liked waiting for the whelp to croak. He turned to look back and check if the boy were still breathing, and to his surprise, the boy had somehow turned himself over and was crawling.<p>

"God damn it," he hissed to himself.

Crawling through the dirt. Crawling away like a little bloody coward. He'd certainly make an end of that. The boy needed to be taught a lesson after the disrespect he showed earlier. If the other bullets weren't enough then he would make sure that this one spoke volumes. He took one step forward, keen on getting his payback that James took from him for his own selfish purposes, and fell under a blow from behind.

* * *

><p>It would have been easier to drag himself through grass than dirt. With grass there was something planted in the earth that gave him leverage to pull and haul his tired body forward. Here there was nothing, like grasping at an intangible ghost of what should still be there. Tom did manage a few feet closer to his goal, but had to stop when he felt the darkness pressing in. Instead, he settled for staring up at what would have been the foot of Allan's grave. He reached out, dragged a hand along the ground with a cross between a grunt and a whimper, and touched the ground as reverently as he could.<p>

"Sorry," he whispered. "Ssso…sorry."

It was all that he had the strength to say. His last words. He had vowed a long time ago never to regret a thing in his lifetime. And here he was, at the grave of a dear friend and mentor he never fully appreciated, with an apology passing through his lips. It stung, deep in his heart to know that he'd never get an answer, that he would die alone in this world after all. He couldn't feel much now, so he figured death was close.

A warm hand settled on his back. He wanted to cry out, wanted to scream at those evil men for not letting him be, even in these last moments on this plain of existence. But the hand was comforting. And the accompanying voice spoke in a soft and hushed tone that was soothing. Next thing he knew there were hands under his arms and he was being lifted. The sudden change brought a flare up of the pain and he moaned aloud. When he was able to open his eyes next, he was lying right next to Allan's grave, in someone's lap, with the person leaning over him and shielding him from the sun.

"You save his life," the shaman asked.

"No," Tom choked. He felt confused. His emotions swirled and made his head heavy. But the more they piled on the less he felt them, the less he understood them as if he were watching from outside of his body in a numb state of awareness. Emotions were…what?

"You save his life." A statement. No. He remembered that. He didn't, no matter how much he wanted to. He did want to, didn't he? Where was his gun? Moriarty was getting away. And with his vision tunneling in, it made it harder to listen and focus. He wanted to sleep. How would he ever stop him dead now if that's all his body wanted him to do?

"I…I…wanted…wish…could've…"

"You go. Wake and see. No bonds. No bonds."

"'llan…Alla-"

"Africa lets live. You release him. Let live."

_Let live…you go…save his life…_

Then, nothing.

* * *

><p>The old shaman sighed at the sight of the young convulsing man cradled in his lap and held up a hand, fingers outstretched above the face. Instantly, the boy stopped shaking. His hand descended and wiped the tears that fell free from the boy's eyes. He rubbed the salty liquid between his fingers and dug his hand into the dirt that had sunk into the grave next to them. He grabbed a handful of it and smeared it onto the boy's bloody face and chest, working it steadily into a mud like paste with the blood and tears as the liquid. With words under his breath, he clutched the side of the young head and pulled it up.<p>

Eyelids flickered sprung back. The once green, now grayed eyes lost what color remained and left white behind. The bony jaw fell slack for one final gasp of breath. And before it could escape, the shaman closed the boy's mouth and nose, laying a hand over them. The wind came then, gentle at first, tossing branches and dirty locks of the boy's hair. But in no time at all the wind turned fierce under a cloudless sky. The light from the sun intensified and the heat bore down on them. It blinded them from civilization, from frightened mothers and children whose husbands and fathers cowered in fear. With the boy still in his lap, the old shaman reached up to the light and waited. His eyes never watered under the intensity of the sun. And the heat did not burn him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you're still unsure, yes this is a time-travelling fic (my first one too…eek). I just want everyone to understand that this will in no way shape or form be a retelling of the movie word for word with my inserts put in casually here and there. My aim here is to be as original as I can, because, obviously, if something changes, then a lot of other things have the capability and probability to change too. I'll admit there will be some key plot scenes or things that I will keep just because I can't bear to be rid of them, but I'll put a new twist on it when they pop up so you'd hardly be able to tell. So, with all that said and done, this is obviously just the first chapter but…what did you think? Review for your humble writer :)**

**-Rainsaber**


	2. Yesterday's Yesteryear

**A/N: **Please cue the public floggings and beatings which I wholeheartedly deserve in all seriousness. Rest assured the next update will not take nearly two years. Just one more quick note, obviously I borrowed from the film in the italics section here, but I just thought I'd make mention of it anyway to cover my bases.

**Warnings: **This chapter might be a little disturbing for some people when it comes to blood and medical episodes and also references of death. Keep in mind this is turn of the century and not exactly the height of all medical knowledge just yet. Also, character death, but with a purpose I'm sure will become apparent with the next chapter. Other than that, please enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two – Yesterday's Yesteryear<strong>

They were beneath the sea, swathed in oceanic darkness where time ceased to exist. The chill of the ocean permeated the iron-cast walls the deeper the Nautilus propelled herself on a voyage to Venice, Italy. Most of the souls she bore on the journey were enveloped in their mundane duties. Others were still in disbelief, shock, and helplessness.

"Drink?"

"How strong?"

"Probably not strong enough," Jekyll said with an apologetic shrug.

Quatermain gave it neither a second thought nor a real acknowledgment as he snatched the offered glass out of the doctor's hands and downed the dry scotch in one gulp. It burned and took over his senses for a few seconds, but the effects of the liqueur didn't last long. Sooner than he liked, he was right back in the same position that he'd been in for the past four hours. Allan Quatermain had his fair share of scares in his life, some more terrifying than others, but this one was still climbing to a notable height on that list. Jekyll went through the same hourly routine and checked the American's temperature, his pulse, the state of his eyes, and his breathing. The doctor poked, prodded, and pinched but there was still no physical response in the prone and bloodless body of Tom Sawyer lying in that God forsaken cot in this God forsaken infirmary.

Jekyll sighed and turned to him. "Might I speak frankly?"

"If you spoke otherwise at this point I might not resist the urge to throttle you, _doctor_," Allan groused, pacing the length of the room.

An odd look crossed Jekyll's face, a crossroad between anger, indignation, and hurt, but it was quickly mastered and gone by the time he started to softly speak. "I don't have all the answers, but if you would take the care to hear me I am trying to give us _something_."

"Those empty theories of yours have gotten us nowhere."

"Then where else would you have me go? To Taiwan?! I've never seen anything like it. With his body temperature the way it is…he shouldn't be breathing. He's far too cold for his organs to still be functioning-"

"And yet he was running a high _fever_ two hours ago."

"Yes, and now he's grown as cold as ice. I…modern science does not explain it so how can you expect me to? He's defying all medical knowledge known to man. I know that hanging my head and admitting to you that I am at a loss does not give you comfort, but I must admit that I am respectfully out of my league on this."

Allan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for further patience. It was true. They had piled blankets on the boy, put hot coals from the boiler room in a pan and slipped two of them under the blankets to keep him warm, but his temperature continued to steadily fall. And throughout it all Sawyer remained as still as a stone. He didn't toss or turn when the fever raged in him, and he wasn't shivering now that his body was freezing. The only time he had moved was when his body became victim to long fits that would last ten minutes or more at unpredictable intervals with unpredictable turns. By now neither Jekyll nor Allan were strangers to the jarring seizures, but the last one nearly snapped both their allotment for patience when the boy suddenly stopped breathing.

Jekyll had said the boy's heart stopped.

And it had for five whole minutes before they could get him to breathe again. A small dark voice in the corner of Allan's mind told him it was through no efforts of their own that saved the boy, and that there was another force at work toying with the puppet strings of the American's life, as if to make them all fools. And Allan didn't like it one bit.

Sawyer continued to breathe, slow and even in a way that almost seemed too slow for any normal man. And the boy looked like death itself, all color having drained from his skin and his muscles beginning to turn rigid. The dark bags under his eyes grew darker, places all over his body started taking on hints of blue, and once when they made the mistake of trying to look into his eyes to find any response the eyes gave them both the worst shock yet. His irises were stark white.

Unseeing.

"We're prolonging the inevitable." The hunter looked down on the boy again and felt his voice grow softer and sharper in accusation. "That's what you mean to say, isn't it?"

Jekyll straightened and a dark gleam passed between his eyes. "I don't really know what it is I truly mean to say, Mr. Quatermain."

"Oh I think you do," Allan said, daring to confront the real doctor he was speaking to. "But I would much rather you keep Mr. Hyde's scheming a separate part to your unbiased and _purely medical_ diagnosis."

The doctor, whether it was Jekyll or Hyde Allan wasn't certain, didn't cow to the hunter's intimidation. If anything, what Allan had implied seemed to add fuel to the fire. "Just what are you insinuating?"

"Nothing, I am certain, _gentlemen_," a voice said from behind them.

Both doctor and hunter turned to see the Nautilus' captain standing in shadow in the doorway. The Indian stepped further into the room and the light from the sconces on the walls highlighted the signs of age in his face, wrinkles from adventures people had only heard stories of, stories of discovery, invention, danger, and even a touch of madness, of the kind people saw in geniuses, mathematicians, scientists, the kind of people who shaped history by standing behind a curtain. Nemo was a figure unknown to most of the world. That was why Quatermain envied him. It wasn't the power the captain held, it was the power he didn't have.

"I would ask you plainly, doctor. Is the American dying," Nemo asked.

"I have no reason to believe the contrary," Jekyll admitted.

"How?"

How? Allan wanted the same answer. They had checked Sawyer all over for an injury, for a source of infection, but found nothing. He hadn't looked sick when they first met. There was no physical injury on his body. In fact, he seemed in the prime of his youth. So how did this happen? How could he be lying in that infirmary bed like he was? How could he be deteriorating so quickly and slipping right through their fingers?

* * *

><p>"<em>Too soon! But that was bloody close and at five-hundred yards too," he said with a smile. "Again."<em>

_The boy winced but set his jaw and called out the command for another target. Allan took a step back and allowed him a bit more space, concerned that he was making the boy nervous. Sawyer glanced over at him only once, but turned his attention back to the target and bit his lip. The rigidity in Sawyer grew worse. Nerves, no doubt, he thought to himself. Allan considered leaving to give the boy some privacy, and also to give himself some time to properly brood over what he had just let himself confess to a complete stranger. _

_He'd decided long ago to never speak of Harry again, not after that day he had to put his son into the dry African ground. Why the story started spilling from his lips in that moment was still a mystery to him. Regardless of why, guilt encased his heart and started to shrink around it, squeezing like a vice and stealing his breath away as memory after memory of his son came to the surface. Allan made his way to the door and reached for the handle. Prematurely, Sawyer fired again and Allan was surprised to see him miss by a larger margin than before. _

"_Damn it," Sawyer hissed, lowering the weapon and rubbing the side of his head._

_Allan frowned, torn between leaving and acting on his concern for the young boy. Settling for neutral ground, he didn't open the door, but neither did he approach Sawyer. "What's wrong?"_

_The boy winced and shook his head. "Ah…the sun, I guess. Bit too bright."_

"_I thought you'd be used to it coming from those river towns and prairies like you keep telling us about. Nothing but sun for miles?" _

_Sawyer chuckled, but it was forced. "Yeah, well, we ain't ever had this much water where I come from."_

_Oh damn it all to hell._

"_Go on," Allan sighed, and pushed away from the door. "Try again."_

_Sawyer gritted his teeth and called out the command. The target soared through the air and he followed it, raising the elephant gun with effort this time. Not too soon after that the boy's arms began to shake. Whether it was from the weight of the gun or from something else, he wasn't so sure at first. The boy breathed through his nose and out of his mouth, slow and sure, but the rigidity from before returned with a vengeance. Something told him it wasn't just nerves this time. _

_Allan took a few steps closer to Sawyer, laid a hand on his back, and leaned forward. "Relax," he said above the sound of the waves below. "You're too tense."_

"_I'm trying," the boy replied through gritted teeth._

"_Try harder."_

_The boy scoffed, but didn't take his eyes off the target, which was starting to bob out of range in the waves. "Try harder to relax?"_

"_Focus on the shot," Allan chided. "Everything else is irrelevant. Don't look. Feel."_

_Allan would have stepped away and taken his hand back, but something told him not to. If anything the boy seemed less tense with him at his back. And if that were true, then the boy couldn't be nervous. Perhaps he was at failing to make the shot but not at Allan's presence. For some reason that thought comforted him, but he shoved the warm feeling aside, determined not to let it find a home. Tom took the shot, and despite the distance he nearly made it. Allan would have even gone as far to say it had been closer than his earlier four hundred yard miss. _

"_Better," he praised, as much as was necessary. "Once more ought to do it."_

_Sawyer took a breath, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and the sides of his face, then called out the command again. The target sailed over their heads, but the boy didn't watch it. His eyes were closed tight and his head bent over with the gun resting on the railing. Allan opened his mouth to say something, but the boy raised it and aimed. He bit his lip and widened his stance. At the small sound the boy made in his throat, Allan suddenly realized why Sawyer was so tense. _

_He was in pain. _

"_Sawyer?"_

_The boy gasped and clenched his eyes shut. Allan took the weight of the gun and grabbed Sawyer's shoulder when he saw him sway. The boy just as quickly grasped the railing and righted himself, hunching over and putting another hand to his head. "You all right," Allan asked._

"_Ever had the world's worst headache?"_

"_Can't say I have, but I'm no stranger to migraines. And if that's the case the sun won't do you any good. Come on. We're done for the day."_

_The servant behind them nodded at Quatermain's declaration and started putting the machine and target balls away. Sawyer was still leaning against the railing, hunched over with both hands still shielding his eyes. The boy groaned, his voice dropping to a whisper under the strain. "It's like some bastard's driving a hot poker straight between my damn eyes."_

"_Well, lucky for us both I happen to know a captain from India with an assortment of teas. And if that doesn't interest you there's two doctors on board who probably have something in those thick skulls of theirs to help."_

"_Very reassuring."_

_Allan reached out to grasp Sawyer by the elbow but the boy shrugged out of his grasp and swayed a little as he left the railing. Allan stayed by him with an arm out just in case, but after Sawyer took his first step, the boy stopped. He dropped his hands, creases of pain still present around his eyes, and oddly he looked straight up at the sun shining down on them. The boy's lips started moving, and his eyes went wide. They didn't even blink against the bright afternoon. "Sawyer," Allan called, alarm coloring his normally calm and disinterested tone. "What are you doing?"_

_The boy kept mouthing words, nonsense words. Then he paused, and when he spoke again it was in a hoarse whisper that made him sound like an old man. "I don't get headaches," Sawyer said before clenching his eyes shut and groaning as he slumped forward, eyes rolled upwards into the back of his head. _

_Allan dropped the guns in his hands as he surged forward and tried to keep Sawyer on his feet. But it was a losing battle against gravity. Allan had no choice but to soften the fall at the expense of his own aches and pains flaring to life. To his horror, the boy hadn't even passed out. He was gasping and shaking in convulsions. _

_Allan grabbed at the boy's arms and tried to make him still. "Sawyer-Sawyer!"_

_But the boy couldn't answer. He only grew whiter as the seconds passed. The servant with them came to Allan's side, unsure of what to do. Allan grabbed him by his clothes and shouted before shoving him toward the door. "Get a doctor! Now!"_

_Fear seized his chest. _

_He didn't know what to do. _

_All he could do was hold the boy against him and do something he hadn't done in a very very long time.* _

_Pray._

* * *

><p>"You think it was one of us?"<p>

The hunter didn't acknowledge the vampire's presence. He kept his hand attached to the boy's own, convinced that somehow his own body heat could be of some help, and he kept his eyes fixed on the boy's chest. "It's always possible." Allan replied.

Mina Harker closed the door to the infirmary behind her, and stayed at a respectable distance. "What are you looking for, Mr. Quatermain?"

"Proof that I can trust you."

"You don't consider me a suspect?"

A long pause followed. Allan sighed and reluctantly turned around. The woman had let her hair down. She was decently dressed, but robed in clothing meant for private evenings. It reminded of his first wife, once upon a time when he would catch her sitting in his reading chair by the fire in his bedroom, waiting up for him with a book in hand. Mina's expression was just as soft, but with a touch of sadness and caution, not mild annoyance and tired happiness.

"Something tells me you have bigger animals to hunt," Allan said.

She smiled. "A fair assessment. What do you suspect?"

"Poison is all we have to go on at this point."

"Did Dr. Jekyll not already test for them?"

"Do you really think one test can detect every poison known to man?"

"If that is the case then there is no hope. If it is not poison?"

"A disease, a sickness, something! This boy was unscathed and healthy _hours_ ago and since then he's spiked a fever, suffered three seizures, cooled down to the temperature of actual ice, and now he's wasting away by the minute!"

Mina was silent as she crossed to Sawyer's bedside. She seated herself on the side of the bed and touched Sawyer's cheek. "My husband was a chemist and I learned much from him in his short life. There is nothing natural in my knowledge of the world that can cause this."

Allan's eyes narrowed in understanding. "You think something more could be the cause? Something…extraordinary?"

Mina was just as grim when she answered. "For lack of a better explanation, yes. The effects are such that they reflect the bodily symptoms of the vampyric virus, but before your imagination runs away with you, Mr. Quatermain, I should tell you my blood is not in its prime cycle to become contagious upon contact. And neither have I so much as touched the American. If I had then you would have seen."

"How often does it become contagious?"

"Once every three moons. Intelligent vampires such as myself are smart enough not to feed during that moon cycle, for if we did we would suddenly find ourselves with a new vigorous hunger depleting our feeding source from us at a faster rate. Older vampires know how to control the urges and survive on less."

"And how old are you, Mrs. Harker?"

"Asking a lady her age is rude, Mr. Quatermain. I am old enough to control my urges, and that is all you need know."

Allan sighed. "Well, if it's not your virus then what is it?!"

But Mina wasn't staring at him. She was staring at Sawyer with alarm taking hold of her. "He's not breathing," she whispered.

Not breathing.

Allan froze under those words, and just as quickly he leapt into action, grabbing hold of the boy's shirt and shaking him. Mina fled the bed and flew out of the room, calling for Jekyll and Nemo. Allan could hear himself shouting at the boy as he shook him and beat on his chest. He stopped every now and then to listen, but no air came from the boy' blue lips, nor did any beat sound in his chest. "Sawyer," he roared. "Enough of this foolishness do you hear me?! Damn you! Damn you, you worthless boy, wake up!"

Some time later when someone came, hands pulled him from the boy's bedside as Jekyll and the ship's physician both set to trying to get the boy to breathe again. They pressed on his chest, they even pressed air into his mouth. But after minutes that felt like hours, both turned to the rest of the occupants in the room with resignation. The boy was absolutely still. He was cold. He was white. He was dead.

"_He's gone," someone said._

Tom Sawyer was dead.

It was paralyzing.

"I'm sorry," Jekyll whispered with an air of finality as he started putting his instruments away.

Allan looked around and saw the same thing he felt. Nemo bowed his head. Skinner's mouth hung open. Mina was stricken in the corner, sticking to the shadows to hide the blood tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Even the unfazed Dorian Gray looked shaken. There were no words, none that could do any further good, none that would wake him up from this nightmare he'd fallen into. It wasn't his own. It had to be someone else's.

"Get out," Allan rasped, fighting against a strange tightness in his throat. "All of you."

Allan didn't look at any of the League as they filed out of the room without any further word. Nemo gave the hunter one last long look that went ignored before he closed the door behind him with a soft click. He crossed the room and sat on the side of the bed, staring at the still and pale form of what was the epitome of youth. The strong sense of wrongness assaulted him as much as the death of his son had. To see a boy, a young boy younger than how old his own son had been when he passed, so full of life so suddenly cut down and ravaged by unknown forces that reeked of foul play stirred up something in him. Something dangerous and hungry. Something he hadn't called upon in a long time. Something he had no use of in retirement.

Something that gave Allan Quatermain new life.

In the privacy of the whitewashed room, Allan allowed himself to touch that hollowed cheek one last time. Then with a deep breath, he pulled the white sheet up and covered the young body that lay beneath it and turned away. He had seen enough of death. He had seen enough young men just like this one die in the name of greater good. Precious and promising lives wasted. And on what?

"He'll pay for what he did," the hunter vowed, softly. "Whoever it was. With his life. I promise you."

He stood with all the strength that abandoned him the moment the boy first fell victim to this unseen villain. He didn't look back at the form under the sheet. Instead he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door just as Nemo had, with a somber air and sense of loss. For a moment, Allan wasn't certain what he was going to do or where he was going. Walking, he supposed, would be a good start, heavy as his feet seemed.

But he gave into one more urge before that. He pulled his pocket watch out of his vest and opened it to note the time. And he nearly dropped it when he opened the latch, for out of it poured a small but fair amount of sand.

Sand that, for the smallest moment, smelled like Africa.

He stared at the small pile on the floor in disbelief, but eventually shook himself and beat down the feeling in his chest that told him that was impossible. He was starting to grow senile if he was going to believe that sand could appear out of thin air. "Blasted desert," he grumbled, shoving the watch back in his pocket, and kicking at the handful of sand on the floor as he stalked down the hall.

He needed a strong drink.

And time.

Time to think.

Time to gather his senses.

Time to recollect himself.

* * *

><p>Unbeknownst to the hunter, men aboard the Nautilus found themselves in similar predicaments. One noticed a clock, fixed to the iron wall, entirely filled with sand. He called another hand over and spoke in low tones. Their commanding officer strode over to them and pushed them both aside, thinking it a prank, and opened the glass face fully intending to reprimand them for their foolishness. But when he opened the cover, the sand poured out in an endless stream. All three men stepped back and watched in wonder as it continued to pour.<p>

And pour.

And pour.

All the while continuing to tick.

And tick.

And tick.

The commander looked up from the growing pile and slowly stepped back onto the iron grating of the catwalks where his men awaited him in fear. He shoved one of them away with an order to find their captain. The man ran at top speed, nearly running into another man from the other side of the ship who ran towards the commander. The new arrival spoke too quick for the commander to understand him, and when the commander could finally get the man to slow down, he turned back toward the clock in confusion and watched as the final grains of sand fell from the clock face.

The ticking of the clock stopped.

The hands stilled.

A silence took over the lower levels.

Sucking away sound and air.

And then the sand began to move.

* * *

><p><strong>*Just a quick and important medical note: this is NOT the official protocol for handling someone who is having a seizure. You are to put them in the recovery position on their side, move objects or furniture out of their reach so the person doesn't hurt him or herself, and let them go. If they don't come out of it after a few minutes or do not regain consciousness or even stop breathing, obviously get medical help <span>immediately.<span> Also get immediate help if you know for a fact this person has no prior history of seizures. Swallowing your tongue is an urban myth, as is the spoon trick. Speaking from personal experience here with a friend of mine who suffers from epilepsy. Just wanted to share the knowledge. **


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